


Demonic Interlude: An American Tale

by TheBlackLagoon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Also kind of Christmas fic, Brother Francis has doubts about loving all of gods creatures, But only because the end of the world in 2012 was predicted Dec. 21, Crowley gets all the genders, F/M, M/M, Nanny Ashtoreth is not amused, The U.S is a mess and this is me venting about the state in which I live, The gun-toting Jesus is not actually Jesus, Warlock takes a trip to Disney World and faints, With Good Omens of course, she/her and he/him pronouns for Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-07-28 22:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackLagoon/pseuds/TheBlackLagoon
Summary: An answer to the question, no one was asking: What happened when the Dowlings made trips back to the States? Or, when Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis take a vacation to the North American Midwest, and run into Pestilence, a gun toting maniac claiming to be the reincarnation of Jesus, and incidentally stop the Apocalypsethatneverwas in the year of our lord 2012.





	1. Prologue

It was Nanny Ashtoreth’s day off. She’d been working for the Dowlings' for just over a month now, and she’d really felt like she’d settled into it nicely. She’d decided to reward herself with a nice little tempt. She hadn’t had much time for it, it took a lot of effort watching over The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.* 

*_It also took a lot of effort to address him by his proper title. _

As it goes, Nanny Ashtoreth had just sat down to a nice cup of tea. It was noon, and already, after a brief phone call, some possibly demonic miracleing, and 75 minutes of angry muttering, she had managed to have all TV broadcasters in Britain for the next 24 hours, only play Barney. She was rather proud of it, imagining all those angry people flipping between channel after channel only to come back to a big purple dinosaur. It helped that it was also Warlock’s favorite program. 

Her self-appreciative hissing chuckle was cut off though by the appearance of the gardener. He didn’t look nearly as happy as he usually did, but it was rather hard to tell under the supernaturally bushy eyebrows. 

“Someone run over your begonias again dearie?” Nanny Ashtoreth purred, and she knew quite certainly, the blood red lipstick she’d applied this morning was doing wicked things to her smile.*

_ *It most certainly was. _

Brother Francis, for that was his name, didn’t seem to care about the work she’d put into her makeup this morning, and sat down across from her with a decided and obvious air of secrecy. Nanny Ashtoreth tried* her very best not to roll her eyes. 

_ *Tried is the imperative word here. _

“I’m afraid I have some bad news Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, eyeing the nearly untouched cup of tea between the two. Crowley pushed it towards him with a sigh, and then crossed her arms in decided aggrievance. 

“It’s my day off, don’t you think this can wait,” she hissed*, and Aziraphale sat back with his tea looking rather contented now. Crowley gave him a rather withering glare.

_ *She was incredibly good at that. Something to do with the forked tongue probably. _

“I felt it only necessary to warn you that the Cultural Attaché and his wife are planning a trip,” Aziraphale said rather slowly, as he was trying to cool the now bubbling liquid in his tea cup. 

“They’re gone every week or so, not exactly earth shattering information, Angel.”

“They’re taking Warlock this time,” Aziraphale said, wincing as the cup in his hands starting boiling over. 

It didn’t register in her mind for a moment what he could possibly be getting at, and then it clicked. The tea suddenly cooled to a reasonable degree.

“A trip to-?” Crowley asked, her lipstick losing its initial startling sheen. Aziraphale nodded solemnly. Crowley picked up the glass of bourbon that had appeared at her elbow, and downed half of it in one go. Aziraphale eyed her warily.

“When?” Crowley asked, once the glass was empty, and her nerves were somewhat satiated. Aziraphale tapped the rim of his cup hesitantly, his caterpillar eyebrows wiggling about in an agitated dance*. 

_ *If one looked at them right, it could almost be considered they were doing the Gavotte. _

“I’d guess within the week. What do you suppose we do?” Aziraphale questioned, forgetting he’d been drinking tea as he raised a wine glass* to his lips.

_ *A 1978 Cabernet Sauvignon _

“We go with them of course,” Crowley stated sourly, and then glared furiously at her glass until it gave in and refilled itself. 

“But what will they need a gardener for- _ there _?” Aziraphale looked pleadingly across the table to Crowley, who realized suddenly what the Angel was trying to do.

“Take a holiday Angel, I’ll say I invited you along,” Crowley grinned, her teeth glinting a bright, menacing white. Aziraphale continued onward in vain.

“But it’s-” he started, but Crowley cut him off with a wave of her finely manicured hand.

“You wouldn't want me tempting young Warlock without your kindly interference would you?” 

“Obviously not- but-” Aziraphale sputtered helplessly, and Crowley watched joyfully. She was starting to feel much better about the situation.

“But what?” Crowley knew, she knew too well what was in store, but it was so pleasing to watch the Angel squirm. 

“But it’s the States!” Aziraphale yelped, sloshing wine onto his front in his exasperation. He began again when the stain miraculously disappeared, a little more composed. “-and we haven't been since-” 

“1912, yes I know. We’ll go by plane this time I’m sure. And anyway, lots of food, you’ll love it,” Crowley stated giddily. She was getting up now, leaving Aziraphale to mutter hopelessly to himself. _ It’s not like it could be much different over there _, she thought to herself helpfully. It was just bigger, and they called biscuits cookies. She didn’t have time to worry, she had lots of packing to do anyway.


	2. Monday  (12 days till the End of the World)

It was the Christmas season, and Warlock did _ not _want to go to America. It was not that he didn’t enjoy the States themselves. There was plenty of junk food, TV channels, and amusement parks for any little kid to be in paradise. But America meant Warlock had to see his Grandparents. Warlock did not like his Grandparents.

It wasn’t hard for Warlock to dislike a person, he was of course, four years old, and if you looked at him wrong he could hold a grudge that would last, at least, until his next nap time. But Warlock’s Grandparents, the _ other _ Mr and Mrs. Dowling, were cheerily fake in a way that, disturbingly, reminded him of his _ own _ parents. The best word Warlock could use to describe them with his four year old vocabulary, was, _ weird _. 

They pinched his cheeks till they were red, called him little tike, and champ, and always asked him if he liked football yet*. His Grandfather seemed to hold the impression that age three had been the appropriate cut off for when it was okay for a little boy to cry. His Grandmother didn’t think little boys should like tea time with their Nannies**. 

_ *He did not, the American or the English version. He preferred games where there wasn't any chance of permanent brain injury. Like patty cake._

_ **Despite it being a very English thing to enjoy. _

None of this of course, mattered. Warlock was four, and the only people who really paid attention to him, had no authority over the trip to the States*. It was two weeks till Christmas and his father, the Cultural Attaché wanted to have a nice family gathering, at their estate in D.C. And what the Cultural Attaché wanted, he got. 

_ *If they’d had any say, they would all be staying in Britain. Where things made sense. _

Warlock knew his mother would never understand his dislike for his grandparents. He also knew his father wouldn’t be around to hear it. So while one of the many household maids packed his bags, Warlock tottled down to the servants quarters. 

Nanny Ashtoreth was waiting for him in her evening chair, a big astronomy tome sitting in her lap. She smiled as soon as she saw him*, and Warlock, knowing the drill, grabbed the small stool in the corner, dragged it to the foot of her chair, and sat down with an air of importance. Nanny Ashtoreth waited for him to speak first. 

_ *It was not a pleasant smile, but Warlock found it comforting anyway. _

“Nanny, do you have to like the people you’re related to?” Warlock asked tentatively. He’d thought a lot about the question, and he knew Nanny never judged him harshly, but he understood it was something difficult he was asking. Nanny Ashtoreth only hesitated a moment before answering. 

“No my dear, far from it. Sometimes because they’re family, it seems like you have to give them special treatment, that even if they don’t treat you well, you still have to love them. But if they’re really your family, they should treat you well anyway. Or at least have the best intentions of it,” Nanny Ashtoreth replied firmly, and she looked right at Warlock as she did*, a thing his mother and father never seemed to be able to do.

_ *At least with the very distinct and believable appearance of looking at him. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses. _

Warlock nodded solemnly, and sensing his dower mood in a way no one else ever had been able to, Nanny Ashtoreth moved her book, and patted her lap in invitation. Warlock did not waste time as he clambered from his stool and onto her lap. It wasn’t often that she allowed this, but she always knew when it was really needed. Warlock appreciated that in her. Her attentiveness. She ran a soothing hand over his head, and Warlock tucked his face into her shoulder. 

“Worried about your Grandparents?” Nanny asked, her voice a soft whisper in his hair. He nodded again, trying to hide his now watering eyes. He gave a few weak sniffles before he drew back from her embrace.

“You are coming with us, aren’t you Nanny? To the States?” Warlock asked, worrying the sides of his slate grey jumper. Nanny Ashtoreth tutted, and grabbed his hand before he could pull a loose string.

“Of course I am dear, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world,” Nanny spoke softly, wiping a stray tear from his face with ease. 

“Good,” Warlock stated matter of fact, and wiped at his nose forcefully. Nanny chuckled, and then gave him a quick, tight hug* before placing him back on his feet in front of her. 

_ *A hug that could be likened to a Pythons grip. _

“Just remember Warlock, when the time comes, your Grandparents won’t have to be a problem anymore,” she patted his head softly as she said this, and while Warlock didn’t quite understand what she meant, nodded sagely in response. She smiled, looking pleased, then walked him to the door, and told him she’d be up soon enough for his bath and bedtime story. He gave her a tiny wave, feeling much better then when he’d come, and began his ascent to the upper floors of the house. 

Nanny Ashtoreth was weird too. _ Not in a bad way _, Warlock thought as he made his slow way up the stairs. Not in a bad way at all.

**⋆ ★ ☆**

**Tuesday **

**(11 days Till the End of the World)**

Crowley realized, at a very inopportune moment, that she’d never been on a plane before*.This astounding revelation hit her, as she looked out the terminal window to the sleek, private jet sitting unassuming on the tarmac. It also occurred to her, with growing inner turmoil, it was _ her lot _who’d created the T.S.A. Annoying, time wasting, and with no actual reassurance that the process had done anything at all. 

_ *An easy thing for an immortal to forget to do, when the things had only been invented a hundred or so years before. _

It had Hell written all over it.

Of course the T.S.A didn’t even matter if a bird flew into your engine. She’d heard about that happening before. 

“We’ll be boarding soon Ms. Ashtoreth,” Harriet Dowling said, startling Crowley from a particularly gory fantasy of the plane being struck by lightning. 

“Of course, thank you dear,” Crowley said distractedly. 

“Any signs of Mr. Francis yet?” Harriet asked hesitantly, and Crowley shook her head, scarlet curls escaping from her bun. “He’ll be here any moment I’m sure,” Crowley offered, waving off the woman’s concern. 

“It’s so nice that he decided to join you, he’s a very nice man. Anytime you want a little privacy I’ll keep Warlock preoccupied,” Mrs. Dowling said with a knowing smile, which Crowley wasn’t sure she liked much. 

“_ Er _, it’s no trouble, Warlock is… never a bother,” Crowley stated flatly, and Harriet laughed, but it sounded like she didn’t quite know what she was laughing at. She gave a polite cough then, after a moment of dead silence-

“That reminds me- I always get the worst migraines when I fly, you don’t mind switching seats with me to sit with Warlock do you?” 

“Of course not Ma’am,” Crowley tried to smile reassuringly, but it came out more like a pained grimace. Harriet Dowling nodded nervously, took a few cautious steps backward then rushed quickly back to the side of her husband, the Cultural Attaché, who was busy with a phone call to the American secretary of defense.

“I didn’t miss much I hope,” Aziraphale said politely, and Crowley coolly pretended he hadn’t jumped in surprise at the Angel’s sudden appearance. 

“You couldn’t have come any sooner?” Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale avoided eye contact as he answered. 

“I had to make arrangements for the book shop, it took longer than I thought it would*,” Aziraphale said testily.

*_ This was a lie. Aziraphale had spent exactly 30 seconds putting the closed sign on the front door of his bookshop. He had however miscalculated the time it would take him to visit all his favorite restaurants one last time before the trip. Between the full course meal at his favorite bistro, and the cake from a local French bakery, he’d spent over five hours eating. _

“Let’s just, get on the plane,” Crowley said, the sigh in her voice was apparent. 

“I believe that’s a jet dear,” Aziraphale said primly. Crowley didn’t illicit that with a response, and grabbed her carry on with enough venom in her movement that Aziraphale kept quiet as they followed the Dowling family out to the waiting _ Jet _.

Warlock trailed a bit behind his parents, patiently waiting for Nanny Ashtoreth’s hand to hold. She grabbed it and ignored the smile Aziraphale sent her way. 

“I want a window seat!” Warlock cried as soon as soon as they stepped foot on the jet, and Crowley let him clamber past to the cramped window seat without much complaint. Aziraphale eyed the boy with a certain amount of trepidation before taking his own seat. Crowley sat down with a sigh across from them both, and eyed Aziraphale pointedly. Azriaphale did not notice. 

“I’m _ bored _,” Warlock drawled five minutes later, the jet still grounded with the pilot preparing for liftoff in the cockpit. From her black canvas bag, Crolwey pulled out a coloring book, a big pack of Crayola crayons, a fluffy down pillow, and large blanket, and handed them to Warlock. Warlock took them all with a smile, and placed the coloring book and crayons down in front of himself with a contented air.

“What do you say to Nanny Ashtoreth Warlock,” Aziraphale said kindly, and Warlock thought for a moment over his beach day coloring page.

“Thank you, Nanny,” Warlock chimed, picking up a bright red crayon to color in the sea. Crowley threw a half hearted glare at Aziraphale, and then snapped her fingers while carefully positioning the pillow under Warlocks head. 

“Did you just put him to sleep?” Azirpahle asked astonished, and Crowley rolled her eyes and leaned forward in her seat. 

“It’s his nap time anyway, and besides that, we need to talk.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he glanced down nervously. 

“What- news from _ down there _?”

“No, but I’m just- worried,” Crowley said eyeing the now slumbering Warlock. 

“Well my dear I’ve heard these machines rarely ever go down, we’re perfectly safe.”

“_ I’m not _\- I’m worried about Warlock,” Crowley spat, and tried not to think about her earlier concerns with aerial vehicles.

“Why? He hasn’t shown any signs of… _ you-know-what _, has he?” Aziraphale asked concerned, scooching just a bit to the side, away from Warlock. 

“No it’s not- forget it Angel, just keep an eye on him. Give him a rallying pep talk about the greater good maybe,” Crowley said, sitting back in her seat in annoyance. 

“It almost sounds as if you care for him,” Aziraphale said softly a knowing look crossing his face. 

“He’s fine, as Antichrists go,” Crowley hissed, and then turned full bodied toward the window.

Azriaphale’s smile widened, and Crowley tamped down the urge to stick out her tongue at him. 

“Shut up.”

**⋆ ★ ☆**

**Elsewhere, But Slightly More Evil**

His name was Paul Thomas, and he was a doctor. He’d never actually gotten his medical degree, but no one really checked up on those things anymore. 

Although, Paul Thomas was only one of his more recent titles. Back in the nineties he’d preferred Andrew Wakefield, and even farther back he’d been Nero Mortimer. There was a name even before that. Just one word. 

Whatever his name was now though didn’t really matter, because he was retired. Not from being a doctor, that was a side thing, a hobby really. He’d been part of a real cool gang in his younger years, The Hell’s Angels. They’d caused some trouble, had had a few laughs. He’d done his greatest work in the 50’s*, and then from there, it had gone down hill. 

*_ The 1350’s to be exact. _

It was around the turn of the century, when things really changed for old Paul Thomas. He wasn’t the scariest member of the gang anymore, and if you couldn’t cause mayhem with your name alone, then you couldn’t really be considered a Hell’s Angel. Some upstart kid had taken his place, and Paul Thomas had put his bike into storage, and moved to the States. 

The States were a nice place to retire all things considered. Lots of different locals, opens roads and a very bad healthcare system. He made some fuss with Polio and Tuberculosis, but it was too soon before even those had been nearly wiped from existence. Modern medicine was the scourge of his existence*. So he’d settled on the West coast and made the best of it with his medical practice which served only holistic and herbal remedies. 

_ *Literally. _

It wasn’t until the nineties however, with the invention of the internet, that things started to take a turn for the better*. After that, well, let’s just say Facebook was a favorite pastime of his.

*_ This term is used loosely, and only applied to Paul Thomas. It was in fact, _ _ not better _ _ , for a lot of people. _

Despite his 84 year retirement, Paul Thomas had been busy. It took a lot of work spreading misinformation, and he’d even managed to get celebrity endorsement. But it was time for a vacation, and he was considering a change of scenery. Somewhere cold would be nice, somewhere with the fear of the flu hanging over everybody's heads. 

He was thinking D.C, with all those tourists and their foreign germs. It would be perfect for a winter getaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is proof read I swear, but sometimes my brain just edits out bad writing while I'm reading. I hope this chapter doesn't completely lose you guys, I swear more will happen later, but I needed a transition chapter before the good stuff. Anyway please comment to tell me what you thought, good or bad, I just like reading what you guys think :)


	3. Wednesday  (10 days Till the End of the World)

Crowley woke up in a room that wasn’t hers. For one, the blinds weren’t drawn, like they would be in any sensible non-morning persons flat. Despite being a somewhat immortal being, direct sunlight to the face is never a nice way to be woken up. As Crowley rose with a groan, she realized upon further scrutiny, the décor was a monstrous mix of the French Rococo style and American colonial*. The bedspread alone was enough to give her a headache, and with a snap of her fingers the light in the room diminished enough for her to get her bearings. She, _ unfortunately _, knew where she was. 

_ *While the narrator will amend that these styles on their own are wonderful expressions of their respective times, both of them together form something only very rich, very white people could come up with. _

With a heavy sigh, she pulled herself over to a horribly garish, gilded floral mirror in the corner, and assessed the damage sleep had done to her hair. She hadn’t felt the need the night before to dress for bed, and so as she reached the mirror she was met with a rather disheveled looking woman-shaped person. Her hair however wasn’t so bad, just a few loose curls here and there, and nothing a demonic miracle wouldn’t fix in a moment. What couldn’t be helped, however, was the innate sense of dread that followed being stuck overseas in a country that considered McDonalds to be one of the staple food groups.

_ I could fake a cold _ , she thought miserably, while already knowing she wouldn’t. She couldn’t do that to Warlock on their first full day in the States. Who knew what kind of mayhem he could cause with a real upset, and his grandparents would surely be the cause of at least half of them on this trip. _ No _, she’d just have to suffer through, and if Aziraphale suffered right along with her, well, at least there was some benefit. 

After a quick spruce up she went to find the Angel, knowing full well he’d be up, never having gone to sleep in the first place. The hallway she exited into was empty, and she stepped out feeling as if she was being watched*. 

_ *She was, by a man named Stanley, who was just starting to wonder if his mother had been right about quitting the security business and opening up a bakery. He was sure bakers didn’t feel like they were invading people’s privacy. _

As Crowley made her way to Aziraphale’s room at a steady pace, she began to think up a semblance of a plan. They did need a plan that was for sure, one that _hopefully _figured out a way to keep Warlock from seeing his grandparents for two whole weeks. Crowley wasn’t necessarily confident in their problem solving abilities, but it at least made her feel better to talk through difficult situations*.

_ *When Aziraphale wasn’t available, the other listening party tended to be her plants. The volume of these conversations also tended to be a tad louder. _

Crowley had only briefly visited Aziraphale’s room the night before, but it was easy enough for her to find again, and after several minutes of walking the silent halls she came upon his shiny mahogany door. She didn’t knock, having far surpassed the need in their relationship to do so, and was just about to start in on her planning when she noticed a rather important fact. 

Aziraphale was not there. In fact, the room appeared to have been empty since it had been decorated in the 90’s. 

_ This- is an unfortunate turn of events _, Crowley thought, as she looked over the empty bedroom. It meant, that the next logical step was to join the family for breakfast, without the reassurance of a plan or a certain Angel. It also meant Crowley was going to have to improvise, and while she prided herself on some very daring improvisations over the last 6,000 years, they never really seemed to work out in her favor. 

She closed the door slowly, and tried to think hopeful thoughts that Aziraphale had decided he’d like to try an authentic American breakfast spread, and he’d be down there waiting, cheerfully eating an oversized waffle. 

No such luck.

“Ms. Ashtoreth, I was starting to worry you’d miss breakfast,” Mrs. Dowling called from one end of a very long dining table. She and Warlock were the only two present, among stacks of bacon, and gallon, crystal jugs of orange juice. Warlock was sat down behind an absolutely massive pile of flapjacks, at least thirteen seats away from his mother. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley said, feeling rather quesy looking at the two dozen boxes of donuts laying open near her end of the table. 

“Well, help yourself, it’s a full spread,” Harriet yelled, picking dainty at her plate of half a grapefruit. 

“There’s chocolate chip pancakes with chocolate sauce,” Warlock added helpfully, the evidence of the meal all over his face.

“Sounds filling, I’m afraid I’ll just be having a coffee,” Crowley said, and then made an effort to clean Warlock’s face. 

“Not a breakfast person I see, Tad’s the same way. He’s usually too busy to eat in the morning. Phone calls with ambassadors and such,” Harriet hollered, her face going a little red. Crowley almost suggested she move to a seat that wasn’t forty yards away. 

Instead she gave an uncommitted _ Mhhmm _, and continued in vain to wipe chocolate off of Warlock’s face*.

_ *It was making a valiant attempt to stick to her now too, after its migration into Warlock’s hair. _

“That reminds me*, I was just talking to Warlock about this, but his grandparents will be arriving this afternoon. We’ll be having a luncheon to welcome them,”

_ *In no way did the war on chocolate sauce remind Harriet Dowling of her in-laws. She was just very stressed, and needed to unload the news on someone. _

Crowley stiffened, Warlock surreptitiously snuck another bite of pancake into his mouth, and the chocolate sauce stayed stuck. It was time for some improv. 

“The Smithsonian,” Crowley stated.

“What?” Harriet shouted.

_ What _, Crowley thought.

“The _ Smithsonian _,” Aziraphale yelled down to Mrs. Dowling from behind Crowley. 

In the most casual way possible Crowley turned to look behind her. Aziraphale was wearing, what she supposed _ he _thought was casual attire. It may have been considered that at one point*, but between the starched white button up, the dove brown cardigan, and the absolutely disastrous gardener disguise, he simply looked like a chaotic version of Mr. Rogers**. 

_ *That one point being 60 years prior. _

_ **Another favorite of Warlock’s programs, that Crowley detested. _

“Did you know you have the uncanny ability to only show up when it suits you best,” Crowley hissed under her breath. 

“I haven't the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he said primly, and then proceeded to pick up and eat five chocolate iced cake donuts. 

**⋆ ★ ☆**

**(3 hours and a Scenic Change Later)**

“This is boring,” Warlock stated for the five-hundred-and-fiftieth time that afternoon. 

“Really, I hadn’t the faintest idea,” Crowley remarked, and was rewarded with a swift kick to the ankle, followed by a very loud raspberry. She would normally applaud that kind of evil, if it hadn’t hurt so much. 

“I want to see Ms. Piggy, or the Ruby slippers. I saw their pictures outside,” Warlock whinged, pulling hard on Crowley's sleeve. 

“This is the American art museum, Ms. Piggy and the Ruby Slippers are at the National Museum of American History,” Crowley explained patiently, and tried not to think of Aziraphale enjoying himself going over all those Dibner library manuscripts. 

“The manuscripts they hold range from the 13th to 20th century Crowley. Diaries, log journals, scientific documents, it’s a historical treasure trove. I can’t _ not _browse a little,” He’d said before promptly disappearing, leaving Crowley with a very annoyed four year old boy. Of course he’d only come along for the books.

“These paintings are stupid, couldn’t they draw something cool like a dinosaur?” Warlock asked petulantly. Crowley had to agree, after looking at perhaps the thirtieth depiction of cows in a field. 

“That one’s not bad. He’s holding a snake,” Warlock said, letting go of the sleeve he’d been ripping and tottled over a painting at the far end of the gallery.

“Ah, _ Death on a Pale Horse _ . Based off the book of Revelations 6:8. Neoclassical but reflects later Romantic era work. A fine piece,” Crowley smiled, moving over to get a better look at the massive painting. Warlock stood for a moment, his tiny eyes regarding the four horsemen of the apocalypse, _ his _four horsemen of the apocalypse, with something like awe.

“Who’s that guy with the bow and arrow?”

“That’s Pestilence,” Crowley answered, and Warlock was silent again. 

“His beard looks dumb.”

“It is.”

**⋆ ★ ☆**

**(That Same Afternoon but on a Plane)**

Somewhere over Kansas, in an economy class seat, Paul Thomas suddenly felt very offended.

**⋆ ★ ☆**

**Saturday**

**(7 days Till the End of the World)**

Josh Egerton was like any other Texas born American. He enjoyed home cooking, fourth of July fireworks, and Chevy Trucks. If he sensed anyone was even the slightest bit liberal*, he would make sure to slip into conversation that he held a strong belief in the 2nd amendment, which he’d follow up by mentioning his ownership of two sawed off shotguns, one 9mm handgun, and his .45 Colt rifle. They usually ended up being enough to prove the point.

_ *This included men with long hair, women with short hair, people who recycled, people who didn’t wear the American flag, and anyone who decorated with rainbow esque colors _.

He also happened to be the reincarnation of Jesus*. 

_ *The narrator would like to amend that thought, by stating he _ _ wasn’t _ _ . _

26 years prior his mother had been a nun. She’d been very good at her job until a certain accident had happened. To ratify this mistake she claimed she’d been visited by the Archangel Gabriel with the news she was the new Virgin Mary*. Despite this story however, Eunice Egerton was out of a job, with a new bundle of joy, and a grudge against wimples. She also decided she couldn’t name her son Jesus, it was too on the nose. So Josh it was. It had a J in it at least.

_ *Or the Virgin Eunice to be more precise. _

This mistaken identity case wouldn’t have stuck so thoroughly with Josh if not for the fact he was a psychic. This may have been due to the fact that Josh Egerton had nothing really, to fill up all that empty space in his head, and psychic powers seemed to fit okay. It helped immensely to think you were special if you happened to actually be special.

It was these psychic powers however, that let Josh Egerton know about the ride of Paul Thomas, and about the Angel and the Demon from across the pond, and about Warlock Dowling*. 

_ *Savvy readers might find this rather odd. If Josh Egerton knew that Warlock Dowling was in fact not the Antichrist, shouldn’t this story be much shorter? Then readers will remember Josh Egerton is a man who believes he’s Jesus, and they’ll realize it would never occur to him to mention that the Antichrist is actually a boy by the name of Adam Young, who is at this very moment hoping his parents have remembered that he wanted the Micro Chargers Time Track Train Set for Christmas. _

He felt it was his duty as an American citizen, and as Jesus incarnate, to maybe stop a possible oncoming apocalypse.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, work has been a bit chaotic these past couple of weeks. Thankfully I had time today to slip away to the library and finish writing this bit. The comments for last chapter were so incredibly nice and I really loved reading what you guys thought!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally the most fun I've had writing in ages, so uh, I hope it's fun to read. It's a mixture of book and show canon, so it starts out when Warlock is four (in the book he gets Ashtoreth as a Nanny immediately, in the show he's five sooo)- and while both show and book are kind of ambiguous on the time it's set in, if Warlock was eleven in 2019, then he's four in 2012. And you all know what we thought was gonna happen in 2012. So that's when it's set.


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